


Alone On Thanksgiving? Mad At Your Dad?

by MissSunFlower94



Series: Guess Who's Coming To Dinner [2]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Modern AU, Pining, Social Justice Rants, Thanksgiving Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSunFlower94/pseuds/MissSunFlower94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bog King made a personal ad offering his services as a terrible thanksgiving date, he didn't expect any offers and he doesn't get any. Until one year he's contacted by Dawn Fairwood.<br/>It all goes better than expected.</p><p>A companion to Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. The dinner, as told by Bog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone On Thanksgiving? Mad At Your Dad?

Bog’s first thought, after checking his phone three times to be  _absolutely certain_  he had the address right, was that someone had to be playing a practical joke.

His second thought was reminding himself that he  _was_  the practical joke in this situation.

His third was that he really needed to set limits on what he was willing to do to get his mother to shut up. 

As it stood, thanksgiving was a non-event in his household, even before his father had died. His extended paternal family had never left Scotland and Bog didn’t know them outside of old photos, a family tartan, and money on major holidays when he was a boy. His mother proudly considered herself estranged from her family which he figured was an easy thing with his mother being… well, his mother. 

The closest thing next was Plum, Bog’s pseudo-aunt who owned a New Age bookstore a block away from The Dark Forest - his family’s bar - and was either his mother’s bosom friend or worst enemy depending on what mood either of them was in.

But Plum was vegan anyways. Thanksgiving wasn’t her thing.

And so Thanksgiving didn’t really… happen.

And thus it became yet  _another_ reason for Griselda King to push women at her son. Especially in the weeks before the holiday. 

(“I don’t know how ye’ve gotten into your head that even if, by some otherworldly miracle I met someone I was interested in - who was interested  _back_  - that I’d already be invited to their formal as fuck dinner party havin’ only seen each other for three bloody weeks?”

“Peh, I was havin’ dinner at your father’s place after a day.”

“Mum, you were  _staying_  there, for school. You weren’t even- he didn’t even  _like_  ye until after you’d left and he decided he couldn’t live without your nagging.”

His mother’s response was a disgustingly romantic sigh, but the subject was dropped.)

So, Bog made the ad. It was a joke, a way to get his mother off of him - “Yes, mother, I made a personal ad. You can shut up now.” -  and something anyone who was similarly exasperated with their family might sympathize or find equal amusement in. It sat for one year with nothing at all, as he had fully expected.

Then one year later, with five weeks until the holiday in question, he got an email from a girl named Dawn Fairwood.

Bog wanted to refuse out of hand, without even reading the situation. It wasn’t meant to be taken seriously, it wasn’t meant to receive actual offers. But the girl made a compelling case; Dawn was pissed, wanted to have the worst dinner imaginable, she wanted to make her father horrendously uncomfortable, she wanted to ruin thanksgiving and by all accounts he was her best bet at making all her grinch dreams come true.

Granted full enthusiastic permission to ruin someone’s fancy-ass family dinner? This, this he could do.

And so, with a great deal more ‘ _fuck it_ ’ than was usually present in his decision making process, Bog agreed to being Dawn Fairwood’s dinner date.

A decision he was fulling regretting, as he cursed it, the girl, himself, his mother, the whole fucking holiday, and himself again, as he stood rooted in place in front of the address he had been given.

Now, Bog wasn’t _poor_  by any stretch, owning a relatively well-established bar brought in more than enough to be sustainable. He didn’t particularly  _do_  much with what wealth he had; his mother would want for nothing, but that was due in part to the fact that is mother simply wanted nothing - other than his marriage. He lived, theoretically, at home, although both he and Griselda considered the house his with her as more of a fixture than anything - and so mostly his money was used on small repairs, on home, his van or his bike. The most frivolous use of it was on his admittedly large collection of instruments. 

But this, by living space alone, was like comparing a candle to a bonfire. What Dawn Fairwood lived wasn’t so much a house as it was a starter-castle. He could already picture trophies decorating walls for polo or some other sport that only existed at prep schools, the floors that looked like no one had ever set foot on them, and priceless - meaningless pieces of art. He could only imagine what dwelled in their four-car garage. He was playing the date of a fucking  _princess_. He was horrified and terribly, terribly amused. 

He regretted not asking for payment.

Once the initial shock wore off, Bog decided this was going to easily work to his benefit. He certainly looked the deadbeat part, and he knew folk who lived in places like this, knew how they saw him, and already had several ideas of what to do or say that would piss off Mr. Fairwood to the desired levels. So maybe he was going to have some fun, he had a feeling Dawn would want him to.

There was a doorbell, but there was also an ornate door-knocked at the center of the door and he decided beating the shit out of their door was more amusing. He gave it two particularly loud CLANKS and half expected for a butler to answer.

Instead, the door opened in a wide swing to reveal a young woman leaning against the doorframe who surveyed him with one long sweep of her eyes.

In turn, Bog stared back, immediately registering that this was  _not_  Dawn, not unless her name was supposed to be some kind of joke. Those amber eyes were adorned with a liberal amount of dark eyeshadow, the black eyeliner even heavier. A clear stud was in her nose and he could see the markings of where an eyebrow piercing would normally be. The sweater she wore was plum colored and belted and quite possibly the only  _soft_  thing about her. She raised an eyebrow, smacked her lips - as dark as her eyeshadow - and looked spectacularly unimpressed.

“Well,” she drawled. “You must be  _Bog._ ”

 _Don’t dress up_ , Dawn told him in one of their email correspondences in the weeks leading up to this moment. _Don’t shave. Don’t. Do. Anything._

It made sense, and he’d been glad to comply at the time. And he _knew_  he shouldn’t _care_ that he was horribly underdressed in front of this woman - who he still wasn’t one hundred precent certain  _wasn’t_  his date - completely slovenly and bordering on downright repellent.  _That was the_ point _, Bog. You’re supposed to look as undesirable as possible_. That he didn’t consider that very hard to do was something he didn’t want to think about right then. 

“That’s a yes, I take it,” she said to his silence. A smile curled at her lips, though it was neither warm nor friendly. it made her look like she was plotting murder, not necessarily his, but just something as she was considering doing with her evening, which somehow made it more terrifying. “I’m Marianne - I imagine Dawn’s mentioned me.”

 _And if you could, try to flirt with my sister Marianne. It’ll make everyone uncomfortable and I will be THRILLED_.

Well **fuck**.

 _Try to_ , indeed. Bog had a feeling you couldn’t so much as wink at this girl without getting the offending eye blackened. 

She - Marianne -  nodded sagely. “I will take the continued silence as another yes. Tall, dark,  _silent_ type, aren’t you? I guess there’s something to the whole opposites attract thing after all. Well, I’ll go get the sister. You just-” she waved her hand at him vaguely. “Stay.”

As if he could move. 

No, Bog was still staring into some sort of middle distance for an indefinable period of time. He should have asked Dawn more about her sister. She didn’t know what he was doing. Certainly she didn’t act like she did. Flirting remark aside Dawn had made no mention of deliberately offending her sister, just their father, but that didn’t mean she _knew_. 

And what did it even _matter_ if Marianne Fairwood knew he wasn’t really dating her sister or not? It didn’t. It  _shouldn’t_. He’d just… been thrown off guard. That was all. 

Only to be thrown off even more by the blur of color as a small figure all but slammed into him. A high, twinkling voice ringing into his ears.

“Boggy-Bear! You’re here! You made it here okay - didn’t get lost or anything? Oh, you didn’t need to wait outside, Mari’s not gonna bite! Come in, come in!”

Before Bog knew what as happening, he was being dragged in with surprising strength by a pixie of a girl, with a bob of shimmering blonde hair and the widest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Any makeup she wore was understated and she dressed like she had come out of a Thanksgiving greeting card. 

Ah, yes.  _Dawn_.

Behind her, Bog could see Marianne stood on the last step of a staircase they had both come down from, left of a narrow entry hallway. She bit her lip and Bog had to physically force himself to look away. 

“I- uhm- okay,” he told Dawn, eloquently, not really sure what he was okaying. 

When he dared look up again, Marianne had turned a corner and disappeared down the hall. He exhaled, relieved but not sure  _why_ , and allowed himself to give his partner(?) his full attention. 

Dawn was beaming. She looked like she might be vibrating. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, shaking the arm she held. “Thank you thank you thaaank youu. Alright, let’s look at you.” She stood back and surveyed him and for a moment looked unnervingly similar to her sister. She didn’t say anything, just gave a decisive nod and murmured “Perfect.”

“Ah- Thank you? Uh- Y-yer sister is very-”

“ _Unique_ , is the word you’re looking for. It’s what everyone calls her when they’re trying to be polite. Do use it tonight sometime. I only suggest it since she’s not wearing heels. I don’t actually want her to break your foot when she steps on it.”

When Bog just blinked, completely at sea, Dawn relented with a smile that put her namesake to shame. “Look, you don’t have to worry about her if you don’t want to. Now, seriously, you’re letting in a draft.”

Bog quickly stepped aside and the tiny blonde shut the door. When she looked at him again he raised an eyebrow. “One question: ’Boggy-bear’?” He wanted to be disgusted - and he was - but then, that was the point and she played her part well. 

She giggled, linking her arm with his again. “Best I could come up with on such short notice. I thought it was a nice touch.”

“Your sister looked like she might vomit.”

“Hah. Wait until you meet my father. We might get to see his meal twice.”

“You have a morbid sense of humor,” he observed, although he found it in him to smirk at her. Damn it but if her enthusiasm wasn’t oddly contagious. 

“Got it from Mari. Coping mechanism. Dining room is this way, everyone’s already there.” Bog passively observed there were several plaques on the hallway walls but Dawn was moving too fast for him to see what pretentious extracurricular they were for. “Okay,” she continued, her voice dropping and her pace slowing as the hallway widened up ahead. “Remember, I’m desperately in love with you and-”

“An’ I’m everythin a rich old man hates,” he finished. “Not a hard act, princess, I think I’ll be fine.”

Dawn squeaked, releasing him to clap her hands. “ _Princess_! Oh good, good, good. Call me princess all. night.”

“Dawn, my dear, are you going to come in with us or not?” A voice came from a open entry way a door down from where they stood. Dawn tensed a little, then beamed up at him again. 

“Just a minute, dad!” She called, and then softly, for him, added. “Ready?” 

“As I’m goin t’be,” he replied honestly.

She nodded and then lifted herself on her tip-toes to kiss his cheek before he could possibly stop her. Taking his hand now, she squared her tiny shoulders. “Alright. Here goes.”

* * *

Bog got a brief look at the Fairwood household’s dining room - golden walls, a chandelier hung center above a long wooden table set, large windows obscured by green curtains, another wall full of decorative crosses - before the look on Mr. Fairwood’s face distracted him.

And the round older man was obviously the girls’ father as he was simply a grayer version of the man in a large canvas-printed photograph of a family of four that was centered on the cross wall (Marianne looked no older than ten, and was smiling with what appeared to be genuine happiness - it was fascinating). Not to mention the only other man in the room was a younger than Bog. Both had been talking and fell silent when he had entered, his hand still intwined with Dawn’s.

In that moment - the widening of the old man’s eyes, the paling of his face, the way his mouth hung slightly agape - Bog could easily see himself as he must appear to Mr. Fairwood. He had spent most of the day working on his bike and he hadn’t bothered to change as Dawn had requested. His dark grey shirt was stained with oil, grease and sweat, un-tucked and fraying along the hem. His carpenters jeans were in a similar state of disarray, his uneven subtle gave him about five years, making him look considerably closer to middle age than a man who had just passed his thirtieth birthday, and his father’s leather bomber jacket was overlarge and smelt of forty plus years of cigarette smoke.

He tried not to laugh aloud.

He had to try  _really_  hard.

Dawn kept her composure perfectly. “Dad, this is my boyfriend, Bog King. Boggy, sweetie, this is my dad.” Her cheer sounded so genuine, as if she didn’t even notice her father’s discomfort.

The man seemed to be struggling to remember what words were. Finally choking out a “It’s a- ah… pleasure.” It came out like a question.

Bog just nodded his head in vague acknowledgement. He could have said something but silence came easier and let Mr. Fairwood fill it with any number of unpleasant things. Imagination worked in his favor this way.

Before her father could possibly say anything more, Dawn proceeded to untangle their fingers in order to stroke his jaw. “Now, much as I  _haate_  to leave you, I do need to make sure things are plated right. I will be right back, don’t you worry.” She tweaked his nose. Bog struggled not to sneeze.

Instead he gave another long, measuring look at Mr. Fairwood, then looked back at her with a slow smirk. “Take yer time, princess,” he said for everyone to hear. “I’ll play nice.”

Dawn’s eyes danced. She looked delightfully wicked. Another pat of his cheek and she flounced off, loudly humming ‘ _Over The River and Through The Woods_ ’.

Marianne moved to let her pass, having likely come from the kitchen judging by the bowl of fruit salad she held, and settled herself so she leaned against the entryway to the dining room.  _She had a thing for leaning in doorways_ , Bog thought, trying to ignore the way the dark sweater dress clung to her slender figure. She stiffened suddenly and he quickly averted his eyes, trying vainly to keep from flushing - it would be out of character. 

But it appeared that it wasn’t his gaze that had caught her attention. From the corner of his eye he could see her glaring at the other man in the room - and she  _was_ glaring, versus the cold-but-indifferent look she had given him before. Honestly Bog hadn’t paid much attention to the man, and followed Marianne’s gaze to him now. 

He was young, blonde and smartly dressed. And he was smirking at Bog - the smug, dismissive, bordering on disgusted expression that Bog expected from Country Club boys like him. Dawn hadn’t mentioned him, but between that smirk, and the way Marianne reacted to him, Bog sincerely hoped he was fair game tonight.

“Well,” the young man said, his southern accent drawn out in a lazy drawl. “This is… _interesting_.” He nudged Mr. Fairwood, grinning. “Looks like little Dawn’s reached her bad-boy phase. I wouldn’t worry - it won’t last long.”

Mr. Fairwood nodded - looking vaguely comforted by this - while Bog forced himself not to grind his teeth, more at the disrespectful attitude towards Dawn than at any insult to him. 

“Sorry,” he said in a way that clearly established he wasn’t sorry at all. “But Dawn didn’t tell me to expect anyone else. You’re supposed to be who, exactly?”

The blond’s smug expression didn’t waver. Bog decided he didn’t like him. “Roland O’Toole. I’m Ma-”

“He’s a friend of our father’s,” Marianne cut in loudly. She had left her leaning-wall when he hadn’t been looking and startled everyone by slamming the bowl of fruit on the table with unnecessary force. “Apparently he didn’t have anywhere else to spend his night.”

“Now, Marianne,” Mr. Fairwood began in faltering tones.

“Aw, c’mon babe. There’s no need to play coy-” Roland soothed.

“I’m going to get the turkey,” she snapped over them both, the domestic statement delivered with all the venom she possessed. She turned on her heel and Bog didn’t get out of the way in time; she barely caught herself from walking smack into him. Bog wasn’t sure if it was some sort of delusion in thinking her icy glare softened ever so slightly before she tersely muttered to him. “You, sit.”

Bog sat.

Across from him, Roland leered - there was no other word for it - at Marianne’s retreating form, then looked at Bog with an innocent little shrug of one shoulder like a kid in trouble feeling more remorse for being caught than for the action itself.

“Bet you’re glad you’ve got the easy sister, aren’t you?” He said, as if they were  _pals_.

Bog decided he hated him. 

Dawn returned as Bog was mentally plotting murder or humiliation or something that could somehow incorporate both. She looked every bit the perfect hostess as she managed to carry a plater loaded with a bowl of mashed potatoes, a full gravy boat and… something in a casserole dish that he didn’t recognize but smelt like cinnamon. 

Before she could return to the kitchen, Bog touched her wrist and when she met his eyes, gave the tiniest jerk of his head at Roland, hoping his question was clear.  _Can I touch this one?_

Dawn’s response was a very wide grin. She put her hand over his and squeezed it encouragingly.  _By all means, **destroy**  him. _He grinned back.

Unfortunately Bog wasn’t given much time to act on that because he was momentarily distracted even from his new, vehement hatred by the array of food brought first by Dawn and followed in by Marianne. Two trips and Dawn sat at last, beaming over the full table with pride that Bog assumed wasn’t an act. 

Another reason Thanksgiving was a non-event at his household; he might be the best cook in his family (he had to be to have survived past childhood with a mother who didn’t know how to microwave things properly) but he knew no one who could cook like _this_.

Bog wanted to compliment Dawn on the meal, wanted to ask if anything had been made by Marianne, but bit his tongue. He wasn’t supposed to be anything resembling gracious tonight. Still decided to put off any instigative remarks until he, at very least, had eaten, although he would have quite enjoyed saying something that could make Mr. Fairwood near choke on his food. He imagined it wouldn’t take much.

When the meal - delicious, and price enough for whatever else the night entailed - was over, Dawn was the first one up to gather plates and take them back to the kitchen. Marianne stood with her though, shaking her head. 

“No, Dawn,” she said. “You stay with your… Bog,” she gave him another look over that made his skin tingle. “I’ve got this.”

She wasn’t looking at Roland but Bog had seen her take the seat as far from the blond as possible earlier and saw his expression harden fractionally now.

The boy began to stand, “Why, buttercup, you shouldn’t be slavin away all by yourself. I’ll g-”

“No!” Dawn said quickly, almost panicking. “No, no. Roland, you should totally stay here. I so wanted Boggy to meet you. I thought you two should talk!” Under the table her hand squeezed Bog’s in a silent  _I’m so sorry but please please go with it_.

He offered Roland a bland smile that was more of a baring of teeth. The young man looked wonderfully uncomfortable but thankfully distracted enough for Marianne to grab dishes and escape. 

There was a few seconds of immensely awkward silence.

Finally the girls’ greying father spoke. Bog was a little surprised; so far in the evening Mr. Fairwood looked to have been doing all he could to pretend that Bog wasn’t actually there. “So, ehm, Mr. King-”

“Bog,” he interjected.

Bog had never been so fond of the name he had chosen for himself as he was watching Mr. Fairwood’s expression of utter distaste as he spoke it aloud. “ _Bog_ … what, ah, is it that you… do?”

“You’re goin to have to be more specific,” he said, letting a slow smirk rise to his face. “I do a lot of things.” He let that sit for a moment, let any number of conclusions be drawn (Mr. Fairwood’s eyes flicked between him and Dawn, and Bog wanted to laugh) before adding with a shrug. “If ye mean what I get paid to do that’s- well that’s a number of things as well. For the moment it’s bar-tending.” 

He didn’t think it to be too disgusting a career in this day and age. In fact in plenty of circles it was considered wholly respectable. By the way he set his jaw, Mr. Fairwood clearly did not belong to those circles.  _Owning_  said bar might have earned him some respect, but then, that wasn’t what he wanted.

“That’s- well that’s very- uhm… unique.” 

Dawn snorted loudly. When everyone looked at her, she blinked blue eyes innocently and said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye Bog saw her return to looking at her hands. He was pretty sure she had begun texting, only paying the conversation a little bit of mind and only hoped this story didn’t wind up going viral or some shit.

Roland was less subtle. He rolled his eyes as though Bog had just said he cleaned bathrooms for a living. _Good_ , he thought bitterly. Last thing he needed was the whelp coming to the Dark Forest as a regular deal. Owner or not, it wouldn’t be good of him to punch someone out in his place of business.

“What’s it called?”

Bog nearly hit his knees on the bottom of the table, jumping at Marianne’s address, and twisted in his seat to look at her - he hadn’t heard her come back in. 

“What?” He asked, and could have kicked himself. 

She pursed purple lips. Bog stared. “The bar.”

He tried not to gulp, telling himself he couldn’t very well answer while staring at the table, blushing like a schoolboy with his first crush. ( _Not that he had a- not with_ her _\- no_.)  

“The- ah- Dark Forest.” Bog coughed, trying to alleviate some of the tightness in his chest. How the  _hell_  did this woman, who had barely spoken five sentences tonight to anyone, let alone to him, manage to affect him like this? 

“That’s not where you met Dawn, is it?” Marianne finally sat. She inclined her body towards him, resting her chin in one hand, her smile like a razor blade and Bog suddenly had difficulty remembering her question as all his concentration went to not drowning in dark eyes.

Not to mention that _this_ was something he was going to have to pull out of his ass. His appearance was what it was, and neglecting a few things went a long way for the desired state of dishevelment. A few details he could exaggerate or leave out created a perfect disreputable past for Mr. Fairwood to imagine. Any of his appropriately scandalous hippie-communist-heathen views that he could use for argument fodder were, in fact, his own views. But where Dawn and his fictionalized relationship was concerned… he had nothing.

And it certainly didn’t help that he’d never actually _had_  a relationship to base one off of.

Thank god, Dawn saved him. She sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes. “Marianne, _please_. It was a harmless party for Rosa’s 21st, I was DD and you  _were_  invited, if you recall, but you didn’t come because you don’t ‘ _do parties_ ’.”

Her older sister raised her eyebrows while their father made a distressed noise - clearly at the idea of his youngest daughter spending time in the kind of establishment Bog would work at. He smirked, relieved by the save and a little amused by family politics. Something about Dawn’s delivery had him wondering if this was in fact something she had done before. 

“And you honestly looked at  _him_  and, what, sparks flew?” Roland snorted loudly. 

Anger mixed with further relief. Roland was a far easier mark than Marianne, seeing as he hated the man and actually had a bloody handle on him. “Well, lovely as she is, she wasn’t what I would have said I go for.” He _did not_ look at Marianne. “Didn’t mean I was gonna sit back while she got harassed by folk who don’t know what ‘ _no_ ’ means.” Bog casually rolled up a sleeve to one of his more impressive scars on his forearm, broken along the ends into smaller scars from where they’d had to dig broken glass out of his arm. 

He  _would not_  look at Marianne (it wasn’t like he expected her to be any more impressed by his bar-fighting exploits than she was by anything else about him), but he found himself looking over at Dawn. She blinked, a little bewildered but overall pleased by the impromptu story. He wondered if she could tell that, like her own explanation, his wasn’t entirely fictionalized. More than once, Bog King had had to resort to physical measures to get drunken patrons to back off innocent girls. It wasn’t often, usually the offenders learned not to come back to his place of business, but it happened and he dealt with it.

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Fairwood looked shocked. “You started a brawl at your work?” Of course,  _that_  would be more important than the fact that Bog had protected his daughter. 

He snorted, and barely remembered in time that he couldn’t mention owning the place. “The owner understood,” he said with a bitter smile (” _No_ , mother, I am  _not_ going to ask for her number - lord knows she’s had enough problems with men tonight”). 

“Besides,” he added with a shrug. “Worth it.”

Dawn gripped his arm, shaking it a little and beaming at her father. “Isn’t that sooo romantic? No one’s ever gotten into a fight for me before.”

“That’s… lovely, dear.” Mr. Fairwood said, making it very clear he didn’t find it lovely at all.  

“Dark Forest, huh?” Roland said. His drawl really leaned less toward the intended Southern Gentleman and more to backwater hick. “Might have to see it for myself.”

 _Oh god please no_. “Trust me, it’s not to yer taste, pretty boy.” 

His expression actually hardened. Bog was pleased to have finally broken his affable mask. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly how it sounds,” he said. Roland opened his mouth and Bog cut him off with a smooth wave of his hand. “If ye absolutely have ta see, I’m gonna pop in after this - I’ll let ye tag along.” He could either get the man hopelessly lost, or give him a proper introduction to kind of folk he employed. Either would be very enjoyable for him and ensure that he didn’t see him ever again.

“Tonight?” Mr. Fairwood asked. Bog wasn’t sure if he was trying to alleviate the tension or just didn’t realize it was there. “But it’s thanksgiving.”

“Yes,” Bog said. “Your point?”

“You don’t care that they’re working on thanksgiving?” He demanded.

Bog shrugged. “Not particularly. Should I?”

Roland looked spectacularly offended. Bog hadn’t even been trying; this was fantastic. “You would think you could show more respect to the sanctity of the d-”

He trailed off as Bog’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Sanctity. Ah yes, talk t’me about the  _sanctity_  of a holiday glorifying destruction and oppression of an entire race.”

Everyone went still. Literally  _everyone_  - Marianne and Dawn included - and Bog was suddenly a little concerned he had said something that crossed a line. He spared the smallest of side glances at his ‘date’ and almost sighed with relief to see her blue eyes dancing with laughter and not offense. The two men were still staring, gaping slightly, as though a tree had just educated them on higher physics. Bog sat back, folded his arms, and grinned in unrepentant smugness. 

“I- I hadn’t realized you were a- er- native…” Mr.Fairwood attempted. Roland was still satisfyingly frozen. 

“I’m not,” Bog said. “I hadn’t realized ye had to be a specific race to understand human decency.”

There was a choking noise. He didn’t know if it was horror - Mr. Fairwood’s - or amusement - Dawn’s. He didn’t check as, against his better judgement, Marianne had caught his attention again. Damn it all, he wasn’t supposed to want her approval. The entire _point_ of this was not to gain anyone’s approval and if that included hers, well then so it did.

She had returned to drinking, but when she caught his eye she carefully set her wine glass down and raised an eyebrow at him all as if to say ‘ _What do you want - a medal?_ ’ 

Bog looked away, feeling heat rise to his face. He almost felt grateful for Roland’s interjection as it gave him something else to think about.

“Now, look Thanksgiving ain’t about human decency-”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Bog said smoothly.

Roland began splutter something about traditions and history and Bog heard something about Pocahontas in there. He wasn’t really listening, and Roland appeared to know it, which only incensed him further. The man was all but red in the face with his explanation of White American History 101, while Bog simply rested his chin in his hands and smiled in the most blasé manner.  _Please, tell me more_. 

Mr. Fairwood looked like he was trying to disappear entirely. If Dawn was trying to be subtle about her giggling, she was failing.

Marianne, per usual, looked unimpressed. 

Bog’s amusement had its limits and was quickly being replaced by incredulity; how on earth could the guy be so incredibly stupid? “Good god,” he cut in at last, when Roland began to bring up crime rates on reservations. “Have ye ever bothered to research anythin yer spoutin right now? Do ye actually have any idea what’s goin on outside your Country Clubs?”

Bog was distracted from whatever Roland said or did in reply to this by the noise Dawn made - a soft, barely-audible squeak as something had brought her attention up from her phone again. He followed her gaze to Marianne, but the older sister’s expression was its usual disinterest in the entire affair. She studied her nails, and didn’t seem to notice he was looking at her. He didn’t know what Dawn’s reaction had meant.

Roland hadn’t paid attention to this exchange of looks as he was rambling again. Mr. Fairwood looked pale to the point of fainting and Bog nearly pitied him, but not quite. The man had considered _Roland_  a good character for christ’s sake.

When it was clear Bog had had enough listening to Roland, he fell quiet. There was a period of more tense silence. No one really knew what to say to each other. Under the table Dawn touched his hand again, two small squeezes. He looked at her and she smiled. While they hadn’t worked out any sort of official signals, Bog could still understand what she was conveying. 

If you want to leave, you’re good. That’s all I needed. 

Bog found himself squeezing her hand in turn, weirdly proud that he had pleased the little princess of a girl. 

He was getting ready to stand when Roland spoke, clearing his throat loudly. “Well, this has been very interesting, but I think now’s the time for me to go.” 

Mr. Fairwood shook his head, as though he were frantically trying to make amends. “Nonsense, Roland. You don’t-”

“Don’t worry, sir,” he said, his smile to the older man as charming as could be. “Nothing tonight has endangered our… arrangements. I’ll be back.”

Bog wanted to vomit. Marianne looked like she shared the sentiment.

He stood, but came around to where Marianne sat. Bog watched her stiffen and felt his fists clench, as aware as she - and anyone else - was about where this was going to lead.

“I was thinkin you might like a ride home, Buttercup.”

She wasn’t looking at Roland. She didn’t look at Bog. She didn’t look like she was looking at  _anything_ , just staring ahead in a horror that spoke of more past experiences with this shit than Bog wanted to think about. “I drove here, Roland. I don’t need a ride.”

Her voice was deadly cold but lacked its bite. Earlier she snapped at him and glared at him and looked for all the world ready for homicide but the prospect being left alone with him seemed to be too much. Bog felt a surge of protectiveness rise in him. _If that bastard tried to lay a single finger on her_ …

“C’mon sugar. I know you’re still angry. I’m not tryin to do anythin but talk to you - alone.” He shot a look at Bog and even in his anger he almost wanted to flush.  _So he had been that obvious. Well shit_. “Just a harmless little chat, babe.” His voice was smooth and slick and his smile oozed charm. 

Marianne drew in a breath like she was prepared to scream. “You’ve got a lot of nerve to think I want to hear _anything_  you have to say.”

Roland spoke as if she had said nothing. “Oh, you say that now, sweetheart, but I know I can make you understand-”

As he prattled on Bog looked at Mr. Fairwood, hoping the man was going to do something to intervene. The old man was looking at Marianne with concern, but there was a pleading look to it, a silent imploring of her to go with the creep as if he were her white knight. No help there. Well then…

“Do we need to go over basic decency again?” Bog’s question was quiet but Roland cut off immediately. “She said _no_.” 

Marianne looked at him, and Bog was startled by the look on her face. She was openly shocked, her large brown eyes gone wide. It was the first time it seemed like anything he had said or done had actually phased her. There was something so genuine about it that it suddenly felt like she had been wearing a mask for the entire dinner.

Roland spoke again, his voice colder than it had been all night. “Listen, this doesn’t concern you. Marianne and I are-” 

“I’m not your anything, Roland.” Marianne hissed.

Bog waved a hand at her. “There. She’s not your anything so listen to her, and back off.” He stood, proud of the fact that he now towered over the blond whelp. 

He noticed this as well and gulped but did his best recovering. “Look,  _Bog King_ , I get it.” He came around the table, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Little slip of a thing like Dawn ain’t gonna be enough to satisfy a man, but I can’t let ye have  _both_ sisters. Wouldn’t be sporting, you know.”

Bog didn’t know if either sister had heard this, heard themselves referred to with the most disgusting disrespect he had ever witnessed, and by Marianne’s lack of violent reaction he assumed not. But he didn’t need them to have heard to be murderous on their behalf. He loomed over Roland. “I wouldn’t talk about  _either_  of them like that again, pretty boy.” His voice was a low, rumbling growl. “Yer not gonna like ta see what I’ll do.”

Roland stepped back. Bog was about to relax before the man swung his fist up. It was a slow, clumsy motion, and Bog stepped back easily. He stared at Roland, somewhat taken aback. And here he’d thought the pup didn’t have any real bite to him. This was going to be more fun than he thought.

He had his fist already balled before it occurred to him to check with Dawn. This wasn’t part of any plan, nothing she had specifically told him to do and much as he wanted to knock Roland’s teeth in, he wasn’t going to if it was crossing a line for her. Dawn’s eyes blazed and gave the tiniest nod of her head.

Bog relaxed a little, but he found himself looking at Marianne for confirmation as well. She didn’t know he and Dawn’s arrangement perhaps, but Roland appeared to be her problem above everyone else’s. If she had dibs on fucking him up first, Bog could perfectly respect that. He would only play champion if that was what she wanted.

Marianne was looking between Roland and Bog, genuinely startled still. But then she caught his eye. She held his gaze for a moment, her expression unreadable. And then…

She winked.

 It wasn’t a subtle wink, it wasn’t a wink that could have been questioned or second-guessed as a  _did-she-really-wink_  sort of deal. No, Marianne’s wink was large and theatrical. Bog stared at her, at a complete loss - of all responses he was expecting, that wasn’t amongst them. His eyes flicked from her to Dawn. The blonde was looking at Marianne and then at him, now very openly grinning. He looked back at Marianne who had followed his gaze to Dawn and was now looking at him with a very saucy smirk, like she, him and Dawn were part of an elaborate inside jok-

 _ **WAIT**_.

He was vaguely aware of the fact that he was gaping at Marianne Fairwood in nothing short of horror. He knew Roland was likely staring at the three of them stupidly pretending to understand the situation. He couldn’t care; his mind had short-circuited on the knowledge that Marianne had known, had known the nature of his relationship with Dawn, had known exactly what he was doing, had known bloody _everything_ , the  _entire time_.

And she was fucking  _delighted_.

Bog felt a mixture of shock, relief, and a strange sense of pride swell in him. A near-giddy grin formed on his face and he turned in one smooth motion back to Roland - who looked as dumbly confused as Bog had hoped - and punched him square in his chiseled jaw.

… It was all a bit of a blur from there. Bog might have hit the younger man so hard he fell against the table, knocking some of the dishes off and breaking a few. He hoped Dawn and Marianne would forgive him that and agree that it was worth it in the end. Roland did manage to get one punch in, which Bog could admit did hurt, if only for a minute. 

All the while Mr. Fairfield was shouting about the two of them breaking this behavior up immediately, how he wouldn’t stand for it. Another punch and Bog felt a few of his knuckles split and winced, but considered the pain more than worth it. When Roland tried to retaliate again, Bog kneed him in the gut, successfully subduing him entirely. 

“Break this up! You get back,” he was talking to Bog, of course. At this point he wasn’t even surprised that it didn’t matter to Mr. Fairwood who had swung first. “I will call the police if this ruckus continues.” At that Bog willingly straightened, raising his hands in an ironic surrender. 

Seemingly satisfied by that, he turned to his younger daughter. “Young lady, I am going to have a talk with you tonight, do you hear me? I hope you understand that something like this is never to happen again.”

Dawn nodded, appropriately shame-faced. Damn but if these sister’s weren’t good actresses. Still she caught his eye from the corner of hers and she looked like she was glowing with happiness. That was more than enough for him.

Now Mr. Fairwood turned to Marianne and his expression softened. Apparently none of her antics had been noted. “Marianne, why don’t you-”

“What about him?” Marianne interrupted cooly, she jerked her head at Bog. Mr. Fairwood stiffened, looking ready to yell, but Marianne continued. “I’ll deal with him, okay? Make sure he leaves.”

Bog just stared at he. She looked at him and he wondered how he hadn’t seen the smile tucked into the corner of her lips. 

“Be careful,” Mr. Fairwood warned. “I don’t know if I want you alone with him.”

“Don’t worry, dad,” she said smoothly, not looking away from Bog. “I can handle him.”

Bog gulped.

* * *

The second the door was shut, he whirled on her. “You  _knew_?”

Marianne’s eyes were wide and suspiciously innocent, the glint in them no less terrifying now that he knew it for what it was; suppressed laughter. “Shh!” She hissed, a choked quality to her voice. “Do you _want_ my dad to hear you?”

“ _YOU KNEW_!”

She screwed up her face, biting her lip… but it was too much. She collapsed into laughter, loud and raucous, her worry about being overheard seemingly forgotten. She grabbed his arm, just to have something to lean on as it appeared a floodgate had opened and all her enthusiastic, unbridled  _joy_  was unleashed. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. He knew she wasn’t. “I-I’m not laughing at you.” He knew she was. “I- I just- your _face_!” 

“Ye played me,” he said, attempting to still feel sour about this instead of thinking about how beautiful her laugh was. How he had made her  _happy_. 

She released his arm and smoothed her sweater. “‘Played you’, my ass,” she said cheerfully. “Look, I didn’t know how well you’d keep the charade up if you knew I was involved. It was a safety precaution.”

She was still smiling. She was still smiling and damn it he  _had_  been right - the Marianne during the dinner had been wearing a mask.  _This_  was her, with a wicked grin and sharp wit, clever and downright wild, her amber eyes sparkling under the soft yellow light of her front porch….

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Marianne walked him to his van. “Is this really yours?” She murmured, playfully tapping the chipping paint job.

“Ah… yes,” he said. He sucked on his bleeding knuckles.

She nodded. “Nice.” It didn’t sound like sarcasm. She reached into a pocket he didn’t know her dress had and produced a napkin from the dining table, folded around something. “Here,” she said, pushing it at his chest. 

He took it, unfolding the corner to find not one but  _several_  twenty dollar bills. He quickly pushed it back. “I don’t- I don’t nee- I didn’t ask fo-”

“I know,” she said, and her smile dimpled almost shyly. “But trust me, your performance deserves more than even Dawn’s superhuman cooking.”

Bog opened his mouth and Marianne reached, putting a finger to it. He froze, his mind going almost instantly blank. Grinning, she tucked the napkin into his jacket pocket with her free hand. “Just take it,” she said.

Bog nodded stiffly, not trusting his voice. He felt that if she lifted her hand from him he’d probably fall over. But she did, and he somehow managed to stay upright. “I- thank you.”

She hummed, pleased. “Thank  _you,_ ” she said. “Goodnight, Bog.”

Without another word, she turned, returning to the Fairwood mansion. Bog barely collected his wits in time to call “Goodnight.”

Marianne didn’t turn. Just wiggled her fingers in a silent farewell.

Sitting in his van, Bog pulled out the napkin she had given him. Sixty dollars were folded in and he shook his head. Taking the money he went to put it in his wallet when he noticed the writing on the thin autumn-printed paper. 

A phone number was scribbled onto it, along with the words  _Happy Thanksgiving_ and signature _M_.

He had to remind his heart to keep beating.

Lightheaded, grinning like an absolute loon, Bog pocketed the napkin again and put his van in drive. He took one last glance at the mansion before pulling onto the street, leaving it behind him. 


End file.
